I'm Not Scared, Sherlock
by NotFlyingWithOtters
Summary: Written for this prompt: John is terminal and Sherlock has to look after him until his last days. T for mentions of sickness and suicide. WARNING: Character Death.


**A/N: I got given the prompt below by a friend and decided to write it. It was so heartbreaking to write, I found myself in tears. Angst and major character death. Possible spoilers.**

**Prompt: John is terminal and Sherlock has to look after him until his last days. **

* * *

><p>John looked at the slip of paper on the table with his hands shaking and felt a stab of sadness that had nothing to do with how it affected him. He could imagine Sherlock finding it, imagine how it would affect the man that had grown to become his closest and best friend since his army days, the one person who was always… well he decided dependable was not the right word, but the man that would always help him and find him if something bad happened.<p>

But he could imagine the look on Sherlock's face as he realized that there was nothing he could do about this now, no magic solution, nothing that could make this any easier. John was not a coward, he knew this, and this was why he was sat at the table with his back to the door waiting for Sherlock to come home and then he would tell him. Then he could know.

In John's mind it was all too quick, Sherlock coming home. He sat with his cup of tea, _oh how normal, how calm, how strange it felt to be drinking it when he was going to drop a bomb on Sherlock's whole world_, and listened to the sounds of the street. He heard the scrape of the lock and straightened, downing the last of his lukewarm tea and steeling himself for destroying everything Sherlock had with a few words.

"Sherlock." He spoke the word like a command and Sherlock, who had been speaking a mile a minute, turned to look at John sat at the kitchen table, turning the piece of paper over and over in his hands.

"Something's wrong. What is it?" Sherlock jumped to the root of the problem immediately with his brilliant mind making the lightning fast connections. His voice seemed a little broken though, and John ventured that maybe he'd realised that whatever John had to say, it wouldn't be good.

"Sherlock." John motioned for Sherlock to sit down, and to his complete surprise he did, tensed in the chair opposite him. "Sherlock I need to tell you something." Sherlock looked him up and down and then realisation dawned on his face

"It's something bad, probably really bad and you feel that you have to tell me because I'm important to you. You keep looking at that piece of paper and toying with it so I assume it has something to do with that. You've prepared a speech in your head and you've been waiting for me to get home judging by the mug of tea on the table…" Sherlock trailed off and looked, really looked at John. "Oh. _Oh._" John paused for the briefest second and looked down, away from Sherlock's wide open eyes.

"Sherlock I…" It was so much harder than he'd anticipated, the words wouldn't come. Sherlock looked away; it was like he knew without John saying anything. John supposed he did, nothing was private with Sherlock. Wordlessly now, he handed Sherlock the small piece of paper he'd been toying with. "I'm sorry." He whispered as he saw Sherlock's face fall, knowing that words were jumping out at him and there was nothing he could do to stop this pain.

Sherlock looked at the piece of paper, words jumping up at him. _Declining treatment. Having a DNR signed. Cancer. Terminal._ It couldn't be. Not his John, not his soldier, his flatmate, his best friend, his _only_ friend. It couldn't. One look into John's tired eyes gave Sherlock all the confirmation he needed and he leapt to his feet, pacing about the room. He heard John's whispered "I'm sorry" and nearly broke down on the spot.

"John don't be sorry. Please don't be sorry." Was all he could manage before flinging himself down in the chair opposite his best friend with a stunning air of finality. "How long?" He got out past stammering lips and a tongue that didn't want to do his bidding. John looked away, almost afraid of Sherlock's reaction.

"A month, maybe less." He shrugged and looked up; Sherlock could feel the tears prickling in his eyes and refrained from meeting John's.

"A… a month? How long have you known?" Sherlock was, irrationally, angry at John for being so calm when his entire world was about to come tumbling down, when the only person he trusted was going to die and there was absolutely nothing Sherlock Holmes and his genius intellect and cleverness could do about it. What was the use in it all? He felt like kicking something so hard he broke his toes, punching and screaming and cursing the world. John was a _good man_. The best.

"I found out last weekend. There really is nothing they can do for me." Four days. John had known for four days. Sherlock felt his blood boil with rage, but not at John, at the medical institutions that could do nothing to help his only friend, save what Sherlock needed to survive. John was like oxygen. Sherlock needed him to stay alive, to remind him to care.

"So what happens now?" Sherlock was fighting to keep his voice calm, and John reached out a hand, but that made it worse as he could feel Sherlock trembling, trying so hard to keep calm. "I mean I know what happens now, but…" He could feel John looking at him as he forced the words out.

"I make my arrangements and then I die." John was so matter of fact Sherlock could have cried.

"John you can't just die. Just blink out of existence. It's not right." Sherlock found himself saying, still sat at that infernal table in their flat with John sat across from him, a curious half-smile on his face.

"But that's what will happen. I'm a doctor, I've seen death and I know it better than anyone. I'll be okay; it's you I have to worry about, not me." Sherlock saw now what that half-smile meant. It meant _Sherlock you idiot you're so worried about losing me when you know that I'm worrying about you and what it'll do to you. I'll be fine, you brave brave man, and I'll be so very fine because it's all fine. It's you that I worry about and you that I'm worried for. Not myself._ Sherlock could see every word of that in the lines on John's face; it was so cripplingly blindingly obvious. Sherlock felt as though he were falling.

"John you can't just leave me." The words were out of his mouth before he knew it and he felt stupid, childish for saying them. But now they were out another deluge of words were fighting to slip past his lips and sound in the still air before he could stop himself. "I need you."

"Sherlock you were brilliant without me, truly brilliant, and you'll be so brilliant after I'm gone. I know that. And so do you, find that part of you that deletes pain and bad memories from your hard drive and file this away, file it away and store it so that you're ready." John placed a hand on Sherlock's wrist and made the taller man look up. "Sherlock, you are brilliant and you don't need me to be so." Sherlock shook his head vehemently

"I need you John. I need you with me." Sherlock looked at his hands and then at John's. His were trembling, but John's, reliable John's, were as steady as ever, not even the slightest tremor to bely him. John seemed to see this inner struggle, a side effect of living with Sherlock it seemed, and stood up, awkwardly placing one of his hands on Sherlock's shoulder and leaving it there.

"I'm not scared, Sherlock." Those words were enough to bring him back, snap Sherlock out of whatever transient state he had been in and come back to the real world, where John was and still would be for a month, maybe less. He needed to remain in that world, to stay focussed there so that he was ready.

"Who… who else knows?" Sherlock asked, his voice strangely calm now.

"Harry, you, my parents. I don't see the need for anyone else to know." John told Sherlock softly, a smile, a world weary smile breaking across his face. Sherlock felt as though he were clutching at straws, his whole world was shifting but not a flicker of this internal struggle showed on his face or how he held himself. He felt privileged.

"John I… if it's okay with you…" He didn't quite know how to phrase it, but John knew, of course he knew, he knew Sherlock better than anyone, even Sherlock himself.

"I could think of no better way to spend my days than with you." John's voice rang out, strong and clear, and Sherlock felt the beginning of a sad smile flit across his face.

* * *

><p>For a few weeks, nothing changed, there was no sudden realisation on Sherlock's part, nothing seemed wrong and Sherlock almost let himself be lulled into a false sense of security that John wasn't really ill and nothing would have to change. But change it did, and it was a harsh change, unwarranted and unexpected, a low blow just as Sherlock began to feel that maybe it wasn't the end.<p>

It was a Wednesday night, and Sherlock had just solved a case he'd been working on for a few days and John had phoned a local Chinese take away to get it delivered. Sherlock had been idly plucking on the violin strings for a while when he heard the definitive sound of the bathroom door closing with a snap. He was wary now, and it took a few moments before he ventured to the bathroom and hovered outside, not entirely sure what to do. And then he heard John sobbing.

"John…?" His voice was weak, hesitant, and he cursed his inability to shut down fast enough. "John?" This time his voice was strong, authorative, making up for the momentary lapse he had just had. He paused a further thirty seconds, and then, having received no reply, quickly flaunted his lock picking talents and slipped into the bathroom. John was sat on the floor, cradling his head in his hands. Sherlock stepped forward and then quickly dropped to his knees, pulling John onto his lap and stroking his sweaty hair.

"I was sick, Sherlock." John's voice was soft and almost like that of a small child's. Sherlock had never seen John so defeated or upset, and just tried to convey what he felt through touch, his throat was too choked to form words.

"That's… that's okay. It's fine John, it's all fine, remember?" Sherlock tried to coax John into coming back, to stop dwelling on his personal weakness. "There's nothing either of us can do about it for the moment." Sherlock let go of John, but felt the slight tug of John's hand at the bottom of his shirt and sighed, pressed his forehead to John's. "I'm going to get you a glass of water. I'm not going anywhere." Sherlock muttered and stood again, this time feeling no tug on his clothes.

The sight of John like that had made it all so very real to him now, and as he ran the tap until it was cold, he rested his head on his forearms and let out a long, heavy sigh. Then he pulled himself together, controlled his emotions, and filled a glass with cool, clear water before going back into the bathroom and handing it to John.

"I'm sorry." John whispered as Sherlock set about cleaning up, a determined look on his face.

"It's fine. Are you in pain?" The words hurt to say, as Sherlock hated to think of John hurting, hurting and there was nothing he could do about it. John shook his head, but he was trembling and as he did he closed his eyes, tightening the skin on his forehead. "You are, John don't lie to me. Where does it hurt?"

"Head." John muttered; drinking more water and keeping his eyes averted. He seemed to be more with it now and Sherlock could see that the faint haze that had appeared over his eyes was gone and they were once again a clear blue that he knew and loved.

"How bad?" Sherlock could see that John was managing but he needed to know, needed to know exactly how bad it was and what he could do to help.

"Not so bad." John nodded as Sherlock pointed to a small box on the side of the sink labelled 'paracetamol' Sherlock popped two of the capsules out of the blister pack and tipped them into John's cupped palm. It took only a moment for John to swallow them and then climb stiffly to his feet, Sherlock standing faster so that John has something to hold onto.

"John you should sleep. You'll feel better in the morning." His words were hollow, but John saw the intention and flashed him a weary smile.

"Sherlock promise me you'll get some sleep tonight too. And eat something." John looked pale and sallow in the dim lighting but there was no mistaking the steel in his glare as he observed Sherlock.

"I promise." And Sherlock means it because right now he wasn't to make John happy and if eating and sleeping and just generally doing what John says will make him happy then he will. The Chinese take away gets forgotten about in the confusion, and Mrs Hudson ends up paying, and she knows then that something is wrong.

A little after John goes to bed, Sherlock goes into his room and looks at that slip of paper that John had given him when he had found out about his illness, he traces the words with his fingertip and in his mind's eye he can see the doctor handing him it with a sad smile and John's soft, defeated sigh as he realises that he's known all along that his life could never be the way he wanted.

Sherlock could barely think to breathe, the simple drawing in a breath was too much for him and he put the paper down on his desk. It was so crinkled now from his compulsive rereading's that some of the words had faded as they were lost in the folds.

Sherlock lay on his bed until the early hours of the morning, and then he called Mycroft, his fingers flying over the keys. He doesn't really expect his brother to pick up, but he does, and Sherlock slams a mask down on his surprise.

"Mycroft. I need to meet with you." Words Sherlock never thought he would say.

"Is that so?" Sherlock can almost see Mycroft's face, and it makes him angry.

"Don't mess around with me, Mycroft. Not now. Noon, you know where." He hangs up and stares at the LCD phone until it fades into black and resumes his staring at the ceiling, ears pricked for any sign that John is in distress.

* * *

><p>Mycroft is punctual as usual, waiting in the park as Sherlock arrives, three minutes twenty seven seconds after the agreed time.<p>

"You're late." Mycroft announces, surveying Sherlock coolly. Sherlock is in no mood for his brother's barb and so dives straight in, ignoring the jibe.

"You're early. This isn't about me, Mycroft. I need…" He pauses, unsure how to go on. John has only told four people whom he trust, and he wonders whether John will hate him for this. But then, knowing Mycroft, he probably already knows.

"How is your friend, doctor Watson isn't it?" Mycroft abruptly cuts across Sherlock's dithering. This is enough to finally get through to him that he needs to tell someone, and he needs to tell someone before he loses the ability to think straight.

"Mycroft that's what I wanted to talk to you about." Mycroft smiled indulgently.

"Am I about to hear the happy announcement? Lord knows everyone thinks so." Sherlock feels a lump rise in his throat.

"No. No that's… no." Sherlock flung himself down onto a bench, partially hiding his face as he made to stop any form of emotion show through as he had been doing for the past two and a half weeks.

"Then what is it?" Mycroft finally seemed to realise that something was wrong and so sat next to Sherlock, still very dapper, with his umbrella clenched in one hand and his back straight.

"John is… unwell." Sherlock paused a moment, unable to go on. "Very unwell. In fact he's dying. And I needed to ask you a favour." Sherlock managed to get that out in one breath, but the breath in was huge and shuddering, leaving him gasping for air and forcing himself not to start sobbing.

"Sherlock I'm so sorry." Mycroft's voice had taken on a mellower tone, one he used when Sherlock was very young and he'd managed to break his finger in an experiment. It was soothing to Sherlock and it was a few moments before he began to cry earnestly into the expensive material of Mycroft's jacket but his brother didn't care, he just let him cry there. "I know what the good doctor means to you."

"I need you to get me medication so that I can help manage his pain and minimise his suffering in his last weeks. I need you to do this. This is the only time I have ever asked you for anything and I need it to be done." Sherlock looked at the floor, extricating himself from Mycroft and regaining all of his composure.

"Of course, I can arrange it. And Sherlock…" Mycroft watched him as his younger brother went to leave. At the mention of his name, Sherlock turned, his usually pale face now unnaturally red and blotchy. "I'm sorry, I really am." Sherlock nodded stiffly and walked away, feeling Mycroft's eyes on his back all the way.

* * *

><p>Mycroft delivered the medication in a nondescript briefcase the next day when John was sleeping and Sherlock nodded as he accepted it, a brief flicker of pain passing over his face as he thanked his older brother. John had had a rough night and Sherlock had been awake for nigh on thirty six hours now. It was getting more and more real, John was sleeping more and eating less, he was getting sick and almost wasting away.<p>

It had been three weeks since John had got the diagnosis and two weeks three days since he'd told Sherlock. _A month, maybe less._ It couldn't be now, not now, not John. Sherlock needed him. He hadn't taken on any cases this week; he'd declined all of Lestrade's calls and just spent the time he could with John. He was helped by Harry, John's sister and the meeting they'd had a few days ago when John was sleeping.

* * *

><p><em>Harry stormed in, intent on talking to Sherlock. The door banged against the wall behind her and Sherlock flinched away, scandalised. He pointed up at the stairs and Harry, horrified, pulled the door to a close and turned to face the consulting detective.<em>

"_He told you." It wasn't a question and Sherlock sighed, resting his head in the palms of his hands._

"_He did." Sherlock confirmed and then turned away. "I… I don't know what to say to make it easier for you, Harry." Harry looked over at Sherlock and smiled, confusing him._

"_Easier for me… Oh Sherlock you aren't as smart as you think you are, are you? Easier for me?" She shook her head incredulously. "I wish I could make it easier for you. I know what he means to you, he's my brother yes, but I watched him go to Afghanistan and I was prepared to let him go then. This is not that much different. I'm okay." Sherlock looked at her, a small smile flickering across his face._

"_I'm not used to having friends. He's my only friend. I don't want to lose him." Harry placed a consoling hand on his arm._

"_That's where we're so very different, Sherlock. I consigned myself to the fact that John would die before me, I always knew. The moment he joined the army I knew. It's not quite the blaze of glory he hoped for I know, but he will go to his death in bravery and good spirits. I know him. He'll be brave up until the very end and Sherlock you need to be brave for him." Sherlock closed his eyes._

"_I can't be brave knowing that he's not around anymore." Sherlock sighed and looked over at Harry._

"_You can be, Sherlock. If you trust John, be strong. He doesn't want you to be upset, I know him, he's my brother. It's okay if you're scared of losing him, because I've gone beyond that. I knew he'd leave me first." Harry's frankness cut through Sherlock's sadness._

"_Harry… is it okay for him to spend his time with me? His… last days, as it were?" Harry smiled at him, a knowing and caring smile._

"_Who he wants to spend his time with is no concern of mine; in fact I would like it if he would be happy. And if that's with you, then I am more than happy for him to spend his days with you." Sherlock nodded and then Harry hugged him, fiercely and tight. "Look after him, Sherlock." She smiled, a little sadly and then stepped away. "Look after my baby brother." And then she was gone, a whirlwind that made Sherlock think._

* * *

><p>"John?" Sherlock called up the stairs and then stepped up them, reaching his bedroom door and pausing, fingers ghosting across the wooden panelling. "John can I come in?"<p>

"One moment." John called from within, and then opened the door, the light in his blue eyes bright. "Sherlock." John smiled but to Sherlock it looked like a pained grimace.

"Does it hurt?" Sherlock asked him quietly, well aware that three weeks was now up and John was entering a rapid decline. John shook his head.

"Not today." Sherlock felt a stab of sadness, he'd seen it all before. The last good day before the decline. Sherlock touched John's hand and John looked up at him with such an intense stare. "I know. I've seen it to. And I am so very sorry, Sherlock, so very very sorry." Sherlock pulled John into a very warm and very tight hug, shuddering as unwanted sobs burst forth from his lips.

"John I'm sorry it was you. You don't deserve this." Sherlock wept, letting go of all emotion he'd kept pent up and locked inside for eighteen days. It took every shred of self-control to stop himself breaking down completely.

"I'm not scared, Sherlock." He reiterated slowly. "I'm disappointed, I always thought that Moriarty would finish me off, and I know you thought that you would go first because of the lifestyle you live, but it seems that fate decided to step in. I always wanted to die a hero, for queen and country, this is nearly humiliating, but if it's any solace for you, I'm not scared."

"I don't want you to go." Whispered Sherlock, still clinging tightly to John as John sighed and rubbed his back and shoulder blades, trying to comfort him. "It's so much harder to see you go because you're my only friend, the only one I've ever believed in. And John I…" He trailed off again.

"I know you do, and Sherlock this makes it all the more heartbreaking for me. But so do I." Sherlock felt John tip his head down and then they were together, entwined completely, just the two of them in perfect harmony. Sherlock drew in a shuddering breath and kissed John again and again, memorising the taste of him, how he felt under his hands and categorising every tiny detail to the way John's hair felt under his palm to the glitter in his eyes when they finally pulled apart.

"Don't leave me." Sherlock's voice was so quiet and small; it almost hurt to be heard. John looked at him sadly, tears in his eyes and his hand resting over Sherlock's chest, on the point where his heart beat under the skin, steadily and rhythmically.

"I wish it were my choice, if it were I wouldn't. I'm so sorry, Sherlock." Sherlock just gathered up John in his arms, once so solid and reassuring, now frail as though a single gust of wind would break him and carried him over to the bed, just curling around him as if to sleep, to protect.

* * *

><p>They slept in Sherlock's bed every night, each time John moved Sherlock would wake, check that he was still alive, and then curl around him again, sleeping lightly. On bad nights, John would wake up, rush to the bathroom and return half an hour later, shivering and clammy with sweat. On those nights Sherlock wouldn't sleep, just lay awake in the bed and listen to John's breathing, walk with him to the bathroom and stroke his hair as he vomited. Nights like that were when fear struck a chord in Sherlock's heart, because he knew that it wouldn't be long before it happened.<p>

Twenty six days after diagnosis, John fell asleep in Sherlock's arms, enclosed in the taller man's embrace. He woke frequently, but only for a few moments before sliding back into sleep. It was getting closer and closer now, and Sherlock did all he could to put up a brave face. It was like a ritual now, every night they would kiss, tenderly and gently before sliding into bed together, John curled against Sherlock's chest like a wounded animal and falling asleep, long before Sherlock did. At midnight, John woke up to see Sherlock staring at him, grey eyes, so beautiful and piercing in the darkness.

"I love you." He whispered, pressing his face into Sherlock's chest. Sherlock felt his heart break. John knew it was soon, he could tell. He kissed John's forehead, ran his hands over his arms, linked their fingers and then, finally, allowed himself to kiss John's lips and lose himself in the sensations.

"I love you." Sherlock breathed, his voice so steady and calm no one would have believed the battle going on inside him except John, clever, brave John. He always knew.

"My Sherlock. Goodnight, goodbye. I love you. Please don't forget." Then he drifted again, and Sherlock waited, counting each breath and watching the rise and fall. Somewhere around six dawn started to break, the cold grey light filtering in. He could see that John's breathing was more laboured now, and he sighed, pulling John close but not allowing himself to cry. Not yet.

"I love you John." He whispered as John took a ragged breath in and then, as though that was what he had been waiting for, ceased to live. John was gone, he had left Sherlock, and then, finally, Sherlock allowed himself to cry. All the bravery and strength he had shown for John, everything he had held back broke down now as the floodgates opened, he cried and wept and held onto John until golden sunlight streamed in. It should not be allowed that this day should be so beautiful when John wasn't in it, it shouldn't be that John, his light, his goodness was gone. But he was, and there was nothing on this earth, that Sherlock Holmes could do about it.

* * *

><p>The funeral was easy, it was a blur. Sherlock remembered Mycroft taking John's body away, and then Harry telling their friends, their colleagues that John had gone, passed. Sherlock didn't want to believe it, but the truth was right there in front of him, John had died in his arms and there was nothing that Sherlock wanted more than to bring him back.<p>

Harry said a few words, but she didn't dissolve into tears or hit the bottle like Sherlock expected, she stood strong and firm and told them all how proud she was of her baby brother and how she would miss him. When she sat down again Clara took her hand. Sherlock was asked to say a few words then, and he did, graciously.

"John was my only true friend. I'll miss him, he taught me how to be a good person, and he was brave until the end. I am proud to have known him." He looked around at the people sitting in front of him, so many of the Scotland Yard team, John's friends from Barts and his school days. Sherlock knew that there would never be this many at his funeral. He turned to the casket, a simple pine with silver and gave a watery smile. "I'll never forget you." Then he went back to his seat as the ceremony finished and left before he could be cornered.

* * *

><p>The flat was different now, so very different. Empty. There was no reassuring drone of the television or the sound of the kettle boiling, no noise from John's room or anyone to chastise him when his experiments went awry. He got hurt dealing with criminals, and he solved the crimes, but it wasn't the same. It could never be the same. Every year, on the anniversary of his death, Sherlock went to the graveyard and sat next to the marble headstone, talking until his voice was hoarse. It was always something different, sometimes Sherlock told him how much he hated him for leaving, other times it was how much he loved him.<p>

But always that one day, he would sit from dawn until dusk and leave with his heart feeling less empty. Sherlock had always expected that he would die first, and it stung every day that John wasn't there that he had been spared this pain that hung around him like a shroud. One day, Sherlock left 221b Baker Street and set off to the graveyard, it had been ten years now, and he felt his health declining by the day. Too many years of abuse prior to John had weakened his body and now he was feeling the effects. He wore John's dog tags everywhere with him and he took John's gun to be regularly serviced and cleaned, kept it in a box under his bed.

"Hello there." He said as he arrived in front of the headstone. "I've missed you so very much, and now it's time for me to join you." His hair had silvered over the years and he was older, slower. The gun weighed in his hand, but it was perfectly steady when he placed it against his temple. He took a sweeping look at the graveyard, so peaceful and quiet, so nice, a good placed to die. "Are you waiting? I bet you are." And with those words, Sherlock Holmes pulled the trigger and departed from the world.

* * *

><p><em>White, rushing noise, blinding, pressure. Silence. Nothingness. The edge of nothingness. Voices. Footsteps. No, one voice. Sherlock opened his eyes and saw John smiling at him.<em>

"_I waited." John's voice was soft, mellow, exactly as Sherlock remembered._

"_I saw." Sherlock let himself be pulled to his feet and then looked around. "Where am I?"_

"_Wherever you want to be." John replied, still holding Sherlock's hand._

"_With you is enough."_

* * *

><p><strong>I'm done, I'm good, I think I cried a lot <strong>

**Tell me what you think xx**


End file.
